CHAPTER THIRTEEN
The last place Waverly thought she’d wind up after camp the next evening was on Main Street inside a utilitarian interview room at Las Vegas’s Office of Diversion Control.
Chilled, she blew into her hands, rubbed them together for warmth. The air-conditioning was overcompensating for the heat and humidity that hung to the pitch-black night. She’d never seen so many cold, impassive faces.
And here she thought she worked with a complicated group.
At the late hour Meg managed to look fresh and alert in her snug pantsuit and startlingly blue T-strap shoes. She was working her first controlled-pharmaceuticals case, which was the biggest assignment she’d sunk her teeth into since her transfer to Las Vegas. It called for late hours, long days, and total focus. Which meant personal ties took a backseat. In light of this, Meg’s inviting Waverly to this location at this time of night was two kinds of weird.
When she entered the interview room carrying two cups of hot brew in one hand—both for herself, as Waverly was still nursing the foam cup of lukewarm water-cooler H2O another agent had offered—she took the chair beside Waverly and set her cane across her lap.
The gesture took off some of the interrogation edge, but not much. Meg rested her arms on the table, steepled her manicured fingers. “Use evidence for maximum results. It’s a cardinal rule, for me at least.”
“Evidence?”
“Jeremiah Tarantino. Let’s say I took a professional look at him.” At the admission, Meg toyed with the ID badge clipped to her lapel. “Called in a favor to D.C., kept it need-to-know.”
Waverly held up a hand. “What the hell? I asked you not to do that.”
“I had to make a judgment.” Pushing back her hair, Meg took a swallow of coffee. “When I found out you were sleeping with Jeremiah.”
“And that was a problem? What are you, a sex narc?”
“Can’t you recognize when someone’s watching your back?” Meg yanked her badge from her jacket and slapped it onto the table between them. “I’m putting my ass on the line telling you what I found out, warning you about who you’re getting all tangled up with. Jeremiah’s another guy with an ulterior motive. Like Alex.”
“Jeremiah’s not just another Alex. I didn’t love Alex.”
“And there it is.” Meg waited long enough for Waverly to understand the magnitude of her own words. “You invest too much of yourself into relationships.”
“Maybe. But it’s better than holding back. I know part of the reason you took this pharmaceuticals case is to distance yourself from Parker. You’re afraid he’ll screw you over, like that black-ops guy did. Well, Meg, Jeremiah isn’t Parker and I’m not you. I trust and I love, and I get my heart broken. It’s not your duty to save me from your mistakes.”
“Fine.” But it wasn’t. A nerve had been hit. “I took a look, had D.C. check my homework. Jeremiah is clean. It’s his father who’s in deep—a gambling network living and breathing in Grimaldi’s casino. We’ve only scratched the surface, but this is what I can tell you. Before he sold the team, Tarantino was using a proxy to bet on Villains games. He manipulated the outcomes of those games.”
“How?”
“A bounty. Incentives. Bonuses. Under-the-table payments to his coaching staff. A few still work for the team—assistant offensive-line coach, wide-receivers coach. All it took was the right players to cooperate, particularly his offensive men. Luca Tarantino took a huge financial loss, and the next Sunday his son got the living hell knocked out of him in a game against—”
Waverly knew her eyes were wide as saucers. It was unbelievable and yet made perfect sense. “The Villains.”
Meg nodded. “That week Tarantino needed his team to win to try to dig himself out. Milo’s strength as a player made him a threat, so he had to be stopped. The erratic wins and losses, the tackle that killed his son’s career, the sale of a relatively lucrative franchise, lying about J.T. intimidating him? The man was covering his ass.” She nudged Waverly gently with an elbow. “What will you do with this information?”
“Jeremiah and I had an agreement—no cheap shots.” Her friend gave her a meaningful look that said, Wouldn’t leaking porn be considered a cheap shot? She stood to leave. “Maximum results, right?”
Another nod. “You know what I’d do. But you’re not me. Just know that I can’t unknow what I found out. Corruption like this can’t be ignored. A man lost his career…could’ve lost his life.” Meg stood with her cane, pulled Waverly into a hug. “Dios. We’ve both got issues, you know that, right?”
“Must be why we’re such good friends.”
* * *
Revenge was a dance. A tango of attack and retaliate. Waverly wasn’t much of a dancer, though. When she found her escort behind the velvet rope leading to the front entrance of Grimaldi Royal Casino, where an Italian opera sensation would be performing for the city’s elite, she didn’t have revenge in mind.
What she did have was backup in the form of a jaded quarterback who had the looks and scandalous reputation of a Hollywood prince and nothing to lose. Simon Smith had harbored suspicions all along, but no one—including Waverly—had been willing to listen. What he’d claimed was a team conspiracy and a corporate screw-over, the public had perceived as his attempt to escape responsibility for his own underperformance and shitty leadership. His release from the Villains upon the change of ownership hadn’t been unexpected—more like anticipated. Now, with no contract and no credibility, Simon was fired up enough to talk to anyone who might clear his name.
Waverly found Simon among the stream of well-dressed guests bleeding into the casino. He greeted her with a short nod. A pair of aviator sunglasses shielded his eyes. “If Jeremiah has us thrown out—”
“I don’t think he will.” Jeremiah may have quit trying to plead his case and draw her into conversation at camp, but when she’d suggested they talk tonight, in person, he’d named the time and place without hesitation. What he didn’t know was that she’d be walking into the casino with Simon. “But if he does, then I’ll try again. I’ll keep trying until I get through to him. We’re giving him the chance to get ahead of the avalanche before the league comes down on his father.”
With no time or inclination to plot, Waverly had chosen to bring her evidence to Jeremiah first. She’d toyed with the idea of saying nothing until the commissioner’s office made a move against Luca. But Jeremiah needed to know the truth before the media captured it, shaped it, exploited it.
Waverly’s skin prickled with awareness as her gaze settled on Jeremiah, who sat at a table in the Mahogany Lounge, his features serious.
As the mezzo-soprano’s haunting aria drifted from the casino ballroom, Waverly approached Jeremiah, with her companion following close. “Simon,” she said, turning to him, “give me a minute?”
“I can give you as long as it takes me to finish a beer. After that, I start talking. And if Tarantino won’t listen, then I’ll find someone who will.” The man shrugged in a take-it-or-leave-it gesture and cut a path toward the far end of the bar.
Jeremiah’s gaze cruised her boldly, intimately, as she closed the distance between them. “For days I’ve been trying to get time with you, Waverly, and when I finally do, you bring him.” He jerked his head in the direction Simon had gone. “Didn’t know you and Smith were a packaged deal.”
“Probably because we’re not.” Waverly didn’t want more walls between them, more obstacles to get in the way of her shedding light on the truth. “Jeremiah, he was telling the truth. The team—your father—set him up to fail.”
“Thought sabotage wasn’t your thing. You’re a Greer and you’re above that, right? So why come at me with this?”
“I’m coming at you with what the FBI considers the truth,” she whispered. “Simon was set up, and it was all under your father’s orders. Luca offered a bounty. He paid his guys to injure opponents and to piss on their quarterback’s plays.”
Simon approached, and though Jeremiah appeared furious enough to overturn the table, he let the man take a seat and have his say.
Waverly wasn’t immune to empathy or whatever emotion compelled her to come within inches of covering his hand with hers, wrapping her arms around him, promising to wait for him to emerge from what hell would come. As Simon recounted hearing players say “Payday!” to the teammate whose hard tackle sent Milo Tarantino off the field on a cart, Waverly retreated.
“I have to go.” She rushed out of the Mahogany Lounge, moving quickly and zigzagging through so many clusters of guests that she lost her way and sought the nearest exit.
And was confronted with an alleyway, which meant the parking garage was on the opposite side. She’d go in later, pick her way to the valet, claim her vehicle, and escape. At least out in the open, surrounded by battered asphalt, she could breathe and try to wash away the memory of the wrath in Jeremiah’s expression as Simon’s words registered and Jeremiah realized that his father had paid for the illegal play that had ruined Milo’s NFL career.
Navigating the concrete steps, Waverly gripped the rusted handrail and gulped in a breath of the night air. As the thick glass door swung open, she turned and was face-to-face with Jeremiah.
“I’m leaving,” she said, sparing him from ordering her off the premises. “If coming here with Simon seems like an ambush, then okay. I can’t be sorry for that.”
She hadn’t meant to touch him, but he made a move to go left and she went right, and she lost her sense at the moment of contact. One of his hands twisted her hair, bringing her face to his. The other settled on her ass, squeezing, imprinting, as he drew her down the last two steps.
Waverly hooked herself to him, taking what his kiss offered until they hit the wall and reality invaded. Easing away, she sank onto the steps with no regard to the pristine elegance of her dress.
“Why didn’t you go to the front office? The commissioner?” Jeremiah asked.
“I know what it’s like to be blindsided.” She rose to her feet, pulled open the door. “And it’s time we both rethink where our loyalties lie.”
* * *
Jeremiah went straight to his father’s Lake Las Vegas mansion, but he had zero recall of the drive. There was only the concentrated anger that had saturated him since the revelation about his father’s deception took hold. Even without indisputable evidence in front of him, he knew that Simon Smith and Waverly had been telling the truth. And you just don’t ignore what makes too much fucking sense.
Hooking a turn into the driveway, he saw his brother advancing to his own sports car. He flashed his high beams, got out, and said to Milo, “Don’t take off. I need to talk to Dad…and you need to be there when I do.”
The men entered the house. Luca sat alone in the extravagant game room, at the custom-built poker table with chips, cards, and a bottle of port at his fingertips. At Jeremiah’s terse “I have business with you, Dad,” Luca flicked a glance his way. Upon catching the simmering fury Jeremiah couldn’t mask, the man fished a cigar from his jacket pocket.
“Business with me. Then why is he here?” Luca pointed the cigar at Milo.
Jeremiah approached the poker table. “Damn it, Dad. I know, all right? I know. Now Milo’s going to know, too. You’re going to tell him.”
Luca slumped against his chair as realization dawned. “Anne wouldn’t have let this happen. She wouldn’t have let me hit the bottom.” He swore. Then, with his stare fixed on the scatter of cards, he started talking.
At the words “I paid cash for that hit—the one that brought you down, Milo,” Milo crossed the room fast and had Luca by the collar, hauling him up from his chair. “You wanted a star!” he growled. “I gave you that, and you fucked up my career.”
Jeremiah shouldered his way between them, shoving his brother back. “It’s not your fight. Not mine. It’s Dad’s fight, against himself.”
“I built my entire life according to his fucking blueprints for me, Jeremiah,” Milo said coldly. “I lost everything—and that man right there set it in motion.”
Jeremiah wouldn’t ask his brother to brush off the rage, to ignore the betrayal. “Blame him, then, Milo. But don’t be like him.”
Luca swept up his cigar and made for the door, only to have Izzie block his path.
“I heard everything, Luca.”
“Sì? Hear this. It’s over. Be out by morning, and leave the house key.”
“We had an agreement. How could you gamble away our future?”
“An empty-headed bitch like you would never be a part of my future. I was after your beautiful cunt,” Luca seethed, pushing past her. “Now I don’t want even that.”
The devastation on Izzie’s face was familiar to Jeremiah. It glinted in his brother’s eyes, even now as Milo sought out the minibar.
Jeremiah strode from the room. He’d let an incredible woman slip out of his life, all because he’d been chasing someone else’s dream—someone else’s blueprints for him.
His father was right about one thing. It was over.
◆◆◆
Cleopatra’s Barge was more than a nightclub…more than a Las Vegas tourist attraction with a kick-ass floating craft and no cover charge. It was an inspiration. At least, it was to a woman who constantly fantasized about drifting off to a brand-new life.
Izzie hunkered down on her stool at the bar. She’d better get comfortable—the Tarantino men had a habit of keeping her waiting or not following through at all with their end of an agreement. And she wouldn’t be surprised if Waverly Greer ignored the message Izzie had left with Desert Luck Center’s receptionist.
The bartender knew her by name and Izzie didn’t have to ask for the whiskey sour he brought to the end of the bar. She crossed her legs, relishing the way the denim hugged her. She’d missed jeans. Luca had preferred her in clothes that showed off her legs.
“Cheers.”
“Toasting to waiting again?” Waverly took the stool beside Izzie. “We’ve got to stop meeting like this.”
The woman’s words were light but there was seriousness and warning in her voice that Izzie didn’t want to poke at. “The things I did…the reasons why…were wrong. I’m sorry for setting you up. I had a stake in Luca getting the team back and it’s all I could think about—even when I’d started to realize his story about your father threatening him was suspect. In the beginning Jeremiah was in it with me, but he backed out. Because of you.”
Waverly watched her in silence.
Well, what had Izzie expected? An “Apology accepted! Let’s be BFFs!” and air kisses? She went on and could blame the whiskey for jarring loose words and emotions that should’ve hardened in her heart long before now. “I fight dirty. It’s just how I survive. My parents chopped this apple off the family tree a long time ago.”
“We’re a lot more alike than you know, Izzie.”
“We’re both blonde.”
“It’s more than that. If you’d put on the brakes during your quest to publicly humiliate me out of my career, you might’ve realized it already.” Waverly abandoned her stool while fishing into her purse. “This is yours.”
Izzie waved away the pig flashlight. “Keep it. Or at least toss it in the trash when my back’s turned. I gave that to you in kindness. I’d like to think I did something in kindness.”
“Goodbye, Izzie.” Key chain in hand, Waverly left.
Another whiskey later, Izzie swiveled on her stool to see Milo making his way to the bar. So he hadn’t stood her up after all. “Coffee. Cream, sugar.” But when the bartender presented him with a steaming cup of java that looked hot enough to have been brewed in hell, Milo remained standing, as if he had no intent to stay and drink that coffee.
“Give this to Luca,” she said, removing the engagement ring from her finger. “I don’t know if you’re speaking to him after what we found out. But he needs to know I sold the dresses and skirts and didn’t keep his ring.”
“For you.” Milo slid the coffee toward her. Then he scooped the engagement ring from her palm. “Done with Las Vegas?”
“I was going to fuck this city. That was the plan. Instead it fucked me—hard—and it’s not done yet. Investigators are going to want to keep me close to see what I know about Luca’s extracurricular activities.” Izzie cast a glance about the room. “On the upside, I have this place to keep coming back to. I can blend into the crowd.”
“I don’t think that’s possible.”
Cynicism aside, she supposed he was right. In four-inch marigold heels, skinny jeans, and a black lace top, with diamond daggers hanging from her earlobes and her hair pulled back into a neat blond bow, she did sort of stand out.
“Wherever you end up, try doing things differently,” he said.
“Follow your own advice.”
“My father—the man I idolized—destroyed my career. Everything I was fighting for was a goddamn lie. Yeah, things can’t exactly go back to the way they used to be.”
“When you put it like that, I guess maybe you’re worse off than I am.” Shouldn’t that fact make her feel even slightly better? It didn’t, and she felt agitated because of it. Life was simpler when she could view Milo and Jeremiah as adversaries and nothing more.
“Is that all, Izzie?”
“I’m keeping the Lamborghini.” With that, she took off in a quick stride, weaving around patrons and servers until she reached the exit—
Where the devil was her purse?
With an annoyed sigh, she revolved slowly, peering back through the packed lounge to where she’d left Milo with that untouched coffee. Except now he was holding up her crocodile coin purse, watching her with an expression that was…amused? No way. The man was too damn serious to crack a smile.
“I’ll take that.” She reclaimed the accessory with a snatch, then hesitated as she considered the coffee. It was a pool of dark emptiness. It’d chase her whiskey but wouldn’t give her prospects or perspective. Even so, she met Milo’s eyes, took a healthy swig from the cup, set it down.
And walked away.